Moonlight Sonata
by CreamoCrop
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are called on yet another case that involves a missing family heirloom. One bright afternoon, they arrived at the gates of "The Black Manor" - home of the enigmatic and mysterious Hooper Clan.
1. Memories

**A/N Prompt fill for kendrapendragon. I may have tweaked it a little bit because frankly, Victorian AU are not really my area. I do hope you still enjoy it though. It's an unbetaed multi-chapter WIP.**

**It might be fun if you read it while listening to Moonlight Sonata Movement 1 by Beethoven.**

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**"Why?"**

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"Why am I the one carrying _your_ luggage, Sherlock?" Doctor John Watson knows that if he choose to do so, he can simply leave the heavy suit case in the ground, and let his flat mate worry over his own luggage. He can walk away, pride and energy intact - _except_, for the small detail involving the ownership of the heavy bag. Being the flatmate and _bestfriend _of Sherlock Holmes - the self-proclaimed world's only consulting detective - the good doctor knows that the man can find a way wherein _he_ still ends up carrying the bag, with the addition of a deflated ego and/or insulted pride. However, it did not stop him from voicing his irritation underneath a thinly-veiled sarcastic question.

The man did not even falter with his steps, instead the lanky figure continued to walk smoothly ahead the path - expertly missing any tripping points despite his eyes trained down on his smart phone.

"Simple. You're the one who lost this month's rent to a silly bet with Lestrade." Sherlock's long, spindly fingers did not even miss a letter as they rapidly flew across the screen. His face remained neutral, in contrast to the scrunched up face of his blogger.

"Well, if you had the grace to tell me that you knew all along that it was the pool boy and not the gardener, then the money would have been doubled right now." In his defense, the bet was made because Sherlock had told him that his prime suspect was the gardener.

Or at least, it seemed so.

"I did not tell you because your discussion on the mechanics of the bet proved to be a sufficient distraction so that I could knick the gloves from the evidence bag." Like a smug little boy, Sherlock turned to face him and began walking backwards as he continued their conversation. "Which, proved to be quite helpful in pining down the pool boy."

John's scowl grew deeper as he struggled to heave both his and Sherlock's bags. "You could have at least given me a hint. "

"I did. I told you about the chloroform bottle, didn't I?" The man child had the nerve to raise his eyebrows and shrug his shoulders before turning around and walking properly.

"That was it?" As John caught the slipping strap of his own satchel, he almost tripped due to an unfortunately placed pebble. He had half the mind to kick the offending piece of rock as a form of rebellion against Mother Nature, Fate, and other forces that had ensured that he be in that exact situation - carrying a heavy load, walking towards an old great house with -he thinks- a questionable plumbing system, and staying there for who knows how long in order to solve a case which would have been ignored, had it not been for the brilliant manipulation of Mycroft Holmes.

The older Holmes came into their flat and dangled the case underneath Sherlock's nose by wrapping it in _oh-I'm-sure-it's-too-easy-for-a-genius-like-you _statements.

He was almost tempted to voice that observation, just for the sake of irritating Sherlock who will surely shoot it down like an in-denial little boy that he really was. However, he wisely chose to keep quiet, lest he want to be at the receiving end of another cutting remark .

The doctor was so absorbed with his irritation and near Herculean task - _really, what did the consulting detective packed in his bag for it to get that much heavy?- _that he did not realize that they had already reached a time-tested wrought-iron gate.

"Yes, John. Now if you could just shut up." Sherlock, with his usual stiffness, effectively placed an end to their conversation before turning to press the buzzer that was concealed behind thick vines.

At the distance, John could see the silhouette of "The Black Manor" - so called because of the black slate that covered its entire exterior. Despite the sun being out in its full afternoon glory, the dark slate offered a gloomy shadow in its surroundings and John can't help but frown as he felt _an inexplicable _feeling settle within him. It was a mix of emotions that he _can't distinguish, much more identify._

For some reason, flashes of the hot Afghanistan desert began to assault his mind. __

_Sweltering heat, devious mirage, heavy air, damp sand…_

"John!"

The doctor's reverie was broken by the sharp voice of his lanky partner. Sherlock stood a few feet away from him alongside a young girl - barely sixteen in John's estimate - who was swaying with the balls of her feet, a display of her nervous disposition. He was so immersed with his memories that he missed the arrival of the girl who, with butter fingers, gingerly opened the heavy latch locking the gate.

"Quit your daydreaming John, we have so much to do." Sherlock said before turning around to proceed towards the manor, without any thought of waiting for them.

Just like that, the uncomfortable feeling restricting the doctor's lungs was immediately drowned by a surging wave of irritation. With a huff, he mustered his patience and strength as he again heaved his heavy load.

"Um, please, let me be of assistance." The young girl eyed him with uncertainty but she extended her arms with the clear intention of relieving him of his heavy satchel. However, with just one look at her skinny arms, John knew that she won't be of much help.

"No, don't worry about it." He smiled reassuringly.

"I can manage it." He can barely feel his fingers clutching Sherlock's case.

"Oh, okay." The girl _squeaked _before clamping her gob by biting her chapped lips. It was only then that John really took note of the girl's appearance. Almond-colored hair hung past her shoulders, her cheeks were dusted with freckles and she had a button nose underneath a pair of brown doe eyes. Her shy nature was exemplified by the downcast eyes and the constantly flexed palms. However, she exude a calm and gentle aura that reminded John of another girl - a blonde and skinny fourteen year old, who always grabbed his hand during the nights when thunderstorms shook their little house.

"Hi, my name is John Watson." Performing a carnival-worthy balancing act, the doctor managed to extend his right hand towards the shy girl.

For a few seconds, the girl only eyed his hand - seemingly weighing whether or not to accept the friendly gesture. Exactly at the moment right before the doctor dropped his hand, she took it carefully.

It wasn't instantaneous.

Nothing like touching an ice cube.

It felt more like sticking a finger in a freezing metal pole.

The coldness spread through his palm slowly, but once it broke through, it felt like needles were being rapidly poked underneath his skin. Unfortunately, he can't -_won't?- _remove his hand from her grasp.

Just like how he can't escape the piercing stare of her brown eyes.

_Burning heat, deceitful mirage, suffocating air, blood-soaked sand…_

"Are you done with your little chit-chat?" Sherlock's voice boomed again through the blogger's consciousness and the hands that were once clasped fell like withering petals. The girl turned away from the doctor to look back at the impatient detective who did not even spare them a glance. Meanwhile, John was left to look down at his hand.

It looked as normal as they usually were, except for a slight tremble that he was not quick anymore in attributing to fatigue.

When he looked up, the girl was already following the detective, who was half-way through the cobbled path.

"I'm sorry, I did not catch your name." John called out as his trembling hand unconsciously curled near his chest.

The girl stopped, but just like all her other actions, it took her a few more seconds before she made her next move. With shoulders hunched and head thrown down, she turned her body halfway towards him - the shy girl was back again.

She was already walking away, before the wind carried her name.

"Heather. Heather Hooper."

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**"Because he had to be taught a lesson."**


	2. Perception

**A/N Forgive me for any mistakes, I tried to research as much as possible, but the internet could only provide me with small details. Not much action yet, this chapter is designed to set the stage.**

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For the most part of history, the Hooper line had enjoyed success. They have a noble title that had been passed on from heir to heir, they enjoy the privilege and respect that comes from being one of the few lines of old money that had survived, and though the family are obviously under hard times nowadays, they still own acres of land and still have enough businesses to guarantee that if worse comes to worst, they will only have to get used to sharing a private jet.

However, if there is one thing that truly reflects the grandness of the family, then it is nothing else but The Black Manor. Completed in 1570, the Elizabethan mansion bore the usual E-shaped construction with projecting wings on both sides. The gables were topped with diamond and bird-shaped finials that spark under the morning sun. John couldn't help but wonder how many birds had impaled themselves on these avian hazards. Thick buttresses supported the pitch-black walls and neat lines of tall, ogee-arched windows punctured its face. The long hallways had been trudged by members of the Royal Family and its spacious rooms had been used for meetings that had shaped England's history. The Arts- and-Crafts styled gardens had been venues of grand parties and the wide parterre in front of the main entrance was a pleasing carpet of green bordered by well trimmed hedges placed in symmetrical patterns.

John would have enjoyed this visual masterpiece, if only he wasn't carrying heavy bags - most of which were not even his.

If it weren't for the presence of young Heather Hooper, the doctor might have already hurled an expletive to Sherlock.

He was still contemplating on how to get back to the detective, when they had reached the front steps of the manor. The heavy double doors immediately opened and they were greeted by two lines of servants who stood stoically with stiff backs and matching uniforms. John's eyebrows raised as his eyes bounced back and forth on the ten people that flanked their sides. It goes without saying that the doctor was impressed, maybe a little off put.

On Sherlock's part, the whole ensemble reminded him of the one that used to greet him and his brother when they go back home from boarding school. Personally, he finds it pretentious and unnecessary. With the air of someone used to such display, he walked past each person. But as bodies moved around his peripheral vision, he started to pick off details and information about them that might be useful for the case. All from sideways glance, he began to deduce the life of the Hooper servants - who was having an affair with who and who was enjoying the wine cellar when no one is looking. However, as he neared the end of the line, the itch of irritation started to claw at him because nothing was jumping out to him and he was unfortunately, banking on the inside-job angle. It seemed to him like the case would be much longer and more tedious than he anticipated.

That was, until he caught sight of the last person standing on the left line.

A petite body wrapped in the standard issued black and white maid uniform. Chestnut hair groomed in a simple pony-tail. Big brown eyes, button nose and small lips. Tightly clenched hands and twitchy eyes trying not to stray to his direction. It would only take a blind man to miss such an important detail.

_Interesting._

The detective could not help the small tug that lifted the corners of his mouth.

_There is always something. _

_Something._

"Welcome, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson." The individual thoughts of the duo were interrupted when a hoarse voice resounded through the halls. An old woman wearing a black mother dress, was walking towards them, slowly but purposefully. Short white hair, framed a thin wrinkly face that bore the marks of beauty eroded by time. As the old lady approached them, the air immediately changed. Backs became stiffer, chins were held higher and eyes became more alert. Heather Hooper, who until then, had been hunching and moving with the awkwardness of a typical sixteen-year old quickly transformed into an heiress in the making, or in Sherlock's opinion, a stiff board. The sudden shift affected even the doctor, and he unconsciously adapted his soldier stance.

Everyone immediately changed in the presence of the old woman.

Everyone but Sherlock and the petite maid whose hands remained clenched and whose eyes remained unsure.

With uncharacteristic enthusiasm, Sherlock smiled at the old lady before giving a small bow. "Oh no. The pleasure is ours Lady Hooper."

John could only sigh at the display. His flatmate was clearly on to something already, otherwise he wouldn't be acting like a puppy eager to please. The doctor knew that it was an act to charm the old aristocrat - for what reason, he was yet to know. However, John was still surprised that Sherlock was acting like a charmer, because usually his flat mate is stingier when dealing with powerful people. The doctor thinks it has something to do with Mycroft, but the detective insists that it was because people in control needs to be turned down a notch every now and then. To see an all-smiling Sherlock in front of a blue-blood was actually more disturbing because John had already seen how powerful a charmer Sherlock is when he wants to be. He felt pity for Lady Hooper.

Most people never stood a chance against a charming Sherlock Holmes.

"Drop the act Mr. Holmes."

It just so happened, that Lady Hooper was not like _most people._ No one in the Hooper line ever was.

Born in the cold winter of 1938, in the very same room that she now occupies, Beatrice Margaret Grey-Hooper had lived through many wars, deaths and changes. As the sole heiress, responsibilities and knowledge where thrust upon her - some welcomed, many forced. In true Hooper fashion, she had weathered through losses and gains with unyielding resilience and pride. Having lost her husband at a very young age of 19, she had to quickly learn how to become both a mother and a father to her one year old son, while also learning how to be the head of a family that had been experiencing steady decline. Though young and female, she found ways to abate their family's worsening condition. For years, she struggled for the sake of a name. However, just when she thought she could finally pass the responsibilities, fifteen years ago, she had to bury her son and daughter-in-law while carrying their eight-month old child.

Time and fate had thoroughly aged her.

Yet, through it all, there she was - an old woman standing proud and calling out a young man who towers over her by a foot. She had seen through Sherlock's act like glass wiped with Windex and she won't have any of it.

If it was possible, the air became more stifling as the detective and the Lady stared at each other. John Watson's eyes were bulging as his focus moved between his flatmate and Lady Hooper. The rest of the household was holding their breathes as they wait for any reaction from the tall stranger and the Lady of the House. The head butler and John were especially alert as they wait for the moment wherein they have to intervene.

However, to everyone's surprise, Sherlock Holmes only smiled. After all, amidst all the shocked faces, he saw from the corner of his eyes, one particular mouth move to form a barely discernible smile.

_A missing heirloom and a bastard child - the case just got more interesting._


End file.
